


Pick Me Up

by Quixoticity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Derek has trust issues, Derek is a firefighter, Getting Together, M/M, Stiles has No Game, Stiles is a cop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 02:20:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14094945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quixoticity/pseuds/Quixoticity
Summary: In which Stiles has zero game, but does his best to seduce Derek anyway, because everyone loves a tryer.





	Pick Me Up

‘Heeey, buddy.’ Scott’s voice resonates low and loud into Stiles’ ear. It’s an unwelcome connection to reality, weighing down Stiles’ subconscious which was hitherto blissfully floaty and diaphanous and _sleeping,_ thank you very much. Reluctantly, he latches on to the sound and lets it haul him into near-consciousness.

Near-consciousness is bright light and an empty stomach and a residual ache in his feet from the miles he’d walked that day. Near-consciousness _sucks._

‘Ermaguh…’ He huffs into the soft warmth of the sofa cushion. ‘Wah?’ 

‘Nap time’s over, bro,’ comes Scott’s amused voice. ‘Or it is if you want to actually leave the apartment at any point tonight.’

‘Nuh.’ Stiles grunts, sinking back down into sleep, only to rudely brought back with a poke to his side. 

‘You told me to wake you up at all costs,’ Scott says, which is technically true but seriously, why is Scott choosing _now_ to actually listen to anything Stiles says? ‘You said you want to go out and celebrate. Something about having mad game.’

‘Don’ ‘member.’

‘Yeah, man. You sang Salt’N’Pepa at me. Two snaps and a clap for a body like that. Remember? There was a dance. With twerking.’

‘Ugh.’ Stiles heaves a sigh that originates somewhere down by the tips of his aching toes. He’s ninety -eight per cent certain that he’s never been this comfortable in his entire life before, and if he moves he’s highly unlikely ever to be this comfortable again. The sofa cushions have accepted him as one of their own at this point, and he doesn’t want to risk incurring their stubborn, lumpy wrath now he’s finally earned their trust. 

On the other hand, he’s just completed his first week at Beacon City Police Department, having graduated from the Academy a few weeks ago, and he’s made it through without getting shot at or vomited on (both things that happened to his dad in his first week on the job), so he really does want to celebrate (and yeah, ending the epic dry spell he’s been suffering through since he and Malia broke up just before he joined the Academy wouldn’t be the worst).

It’s an impossible choice. 

He debates with himself for a long moment, but in the end the prospect of a tall, frosty beer wins the day.

He peels himself from his sofa-groove, muttering apologies to the cushions and petting them remorsefully as he goes. He really hopes they forgive him. 

Scott is perched on the coffee table, watching in fond resignation, as is his way. He’s spruced up (i.e. put on clothes instead of scrubs and run a hand through his hair), and looks annoyingly good considering Stiles knows he’s _definitely_ spent part of his day getting vomited on – by cats, no less. At least the lack of opposable thumbs amongst the majority of Scott’s clientele leaves him much less likely to be attacked with any sort of weapon than Stiles. Just as well, Stiles thinks to himself darkly. Cats are resentful as fuck. No-one would be safe if they were armed. 

Stiles drags himself away from his vaguely sinister ninja-cat ruminations, and into the bathroom where he regards his reflection critically in the mirror. He looks alright, he thinks. His youthful, rounded cheeks gave way to sharp cheek-bones and a lean jaw-line in college, when he’d survived on coffee and ramen for weeks at a time to make ends meet. The definition in his face means his eyes appear larger, and the green of his shirt makes them seem darker. Interesting, he tells himself. _Mysterious._ He waggles his eyebrows at himself suggestively, and then winks, and yeah, no, he’s officially ridiculous. He thunks his head against the mirror in mild despair because how is he even failing at hitting on himself?

He straightens up and stares down the sardonic eyebrow arch his reflection is giving him. He’s no Scott McCall, it’s true, and he does sometimes wonder what he was thinking when he made this choice of best friend and rendered himself forever the wingman to Scott and his irresistibly crooked smile, but then he remembers how Scott left him the last of the Cheerios that morning (even if he didn’t leave him any milk) and _that’s_ why they’re best friends. Because Scott is a god among men. Stiles is happy to be the Robin to his Batman, most of the time. 

It’s just that sometimes Stiles wouldn’t mind being goddamn Batman, too. Sometimes he wouldn’t mind _not_ being the idiot that knocks girls’ drinks over more often than he buys them. Sometimes he wouldn’t mind picking up a guy with his sparkling wit and conversation, and not just by grinding shamelessly against them on the dance floor after too many drinks.

He splashes cold water on his face, deliberately shocking himself from his post-nap grouchiness. What he needs, he decides, as he tries to do something attractive with his hair (still cropped from the Academy, but a little longer than the buzzcut he’d sported throughout most of high school), is Positive Mental Attitude. 

‘Positive! Mental! Attitude!’ He whispers it at his reflection like a mantra, finishing with a mini fist pump and a winning grin (it’s still a little ridiculous, but better than the wink, so he’ll take it).

Tonight is going to be awesome. He’s going to go out with Scotty, meet up with a couple of new friends he’s made at the precinct this week, have a few drinks and a lot of laughs and _maybe_ meet the love of his life.

He will be suave. He will be cool. He will be a paragon of poise and self-possession. 

He is definitely not going to make a massive, embarrassing dork of himself. 

At all. 

No, sir.

*

‘Damn… Beam me up, Hottie!’

The blush sears rapidly over Stiles’ skin as soon as he realises what he’s said, because what the fuck happened to suave and debonair? What the fuck happened to wit? At no point in his mental pep talk with himself had he okayed Star Trek pick-up lines. 

_Okay,_ he thinks to himself. It’s okay. Maybe the guy didn’t hear. Maybe Stiles can start afresh with a new and much less embarrassing attempt to win over the hotter-than-hell guy who is leaning against the bar in front of him. 

(In fairness, it’s actually all Hotter-Than-Hell Guy’s fault that Stiles said a Stupid Thing. What does he really expect, when him leaning makes his arms look like _that_ and his ass is right _there,_ all pert and perfect and on display, and he has _those_ cheekbones…)

The guy freezes, and then turns, very slowly on the ball of one foot, to face Stiles. The twist of his torso makes Stiles’ mouth go dry. Hotter-Than-Hell Guy scowls, and it’s the sexiest thing Stiles has ever seen.

Oh fuck. The scowl means that Hotter-Than-Hell guy definitely heard him.

_‘Excuse me?’_

Hotter-Than-Hell Guy’s voice is dripping with disdain, and god help him, for some reason that really does it for Stiles. He blames Lydia for programming this kind of unhealthy physiological response into him during his impressionable teenage years. 

His palms start to sweat, and he’s hit with a wave of self-consciousness, because the most gorgeous man he’s ever met is giving him the prettiest, angriest laser eyes imaginable, but it’s okay because Stiles excels under pressure. He had a pre-game pep talk with himself for this very reason. He’d wanted to be prepared when the need to be smooth and seductive arose. And okay so there was the initial Star Trek slip-up, thanks brain, but now Stiles is _ready._ He’s got this. Hotter-Than-Hell will be putty in his slightly clammy hands.

He opens his mouth to say something spectacular enough to impress this insanely beautiful man (because surely all of his thousands of hours of compulsive Googling, all of his hundreds of interesting facts and tidbits, all of his witty anecdotes – surely they won’t just abandon him at such a critical moment?), and what falls out, oh-so-sexily, is, ‘If you were a fruit, you’d be a _fine_ apple.’

Oh _fuck._

Next to him he thinks he can hear the muffled sound of Scott choking on his own tongue, and Stiles feels vaguely jealous of him because he thinks that might be a more pleasant situation than the one he’s currently in. Hotter-Than-Hell is looking at him like Stiles just presented him with a platter of something unspeakable, and the beautiful blonde girl next to him that Stiles hadn’t even registered until now is doubled over in laughter, and Stiles wants to _die._

His eyes scan the room for the nearest exit, but his trusty mouth doesn’t let him go without a fight, because before he knows it he’s saying, ‘I like fruit,’ and _winking,_ like he’d specifically forbidden himself from doing.

 _What?_

Hot-and-Scowly just keeps glaring at him in appalled silence, before he does that slinky turn thing again and stalks off to some dark corner of the room, no doubt to start to deal with the inevitable PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stiles Disorder) that the laughable seduction attempt has induced. 

Stiles glances up to find the blonde woman staring at him in open, amused fascination.

‘Not gay?’ He asks, weakly, inclining his head in the same direction as Hotter-Than-Hell’s rapid retreat. Like it would have made any difference in the face of Stiles’ ineptitude.

She snorts. ‘Not for you, apparently.’ 

‘Hey, Reyes, how’s it going!’ A familiar figure cuts through the small crowd that surrounds the bar and wraps an arm around the blonde woman’s shoulder. It’s Isaac, one of the guys from the precinct that Stiles is meeting here for drinks. ‘Awesome, I see you already met my buddy, Stiles!’

Alarm bells start to ring in the recesses of Stiles’ mind. 

The blonde – Reyes – smirks over at him, keeping one arm around Isaac’s waist. ‘In a manner of speaking. He’s certainly made an impression on Derek, anyway.’

Ah. So Hotter-Than-Hell’s name is Derek. 

Isaac quirks an eyebrow. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Derek!’ Stiles says, helpfully. He clears his throat. ‘Yes. Derek. Good name, is Derek. Sort of…’ Stiles’ traitorous body goes ahead and flexes its arms like an idiot, and Stiles wonders if this is what an out of body experience feels like, ‘…strong. Like, um. Like him. Because of muscles. So.’ 

Isaac is staring at him like he’s just landed from another planet. ‘Erica, please tell me this is not the impression he made?’ 

Erica has buried her face in Isaac’s shoulder, presumably so his shirt can soak up her tears of mirth. 

To Isaac’s credit, he doesn’t face-palm, but he does roll his eyes and sigh deeply. Stiles hangs his head a little, because he deserves it. When Isaac turns to catch the bar-tender’s eye, Stiles takes the opportunity to lean closer to Scott and hiss, ‘If you love me at all you will do us both a favour and kill me now!’

But Scott doesn’t reply, apparently distracted by Isaac’s - admittedly very pretty - smile as he orders a round of shots for everyone. Scott is sporting his classic starry eyes, and Stiles hopes that Isaac and Erica aren’t a thing, or this is about to go down as the most awkward night out in the history of ever.

‘Dude…’ Stiles mutters into the shell of Scott’s ear, digging him hard in the ribs to get him to snap back to reality. ‘I think you dropped your jaw on the floor round here somewhere. If you could have a look around for my dignity while you’re down there retrieving it that’d be perfect, thanks.’ 

He dials up the volume so he can introduce Scott to Isaac, not missing the way Isaac’s pupils dilate a little when Scott does his charming-as-fuck lingering handshake thing. He wishes he could be half as smooth. A quarter, even. Stiles’ cheeks get warm again at the memory of Derek’s horrified face and rapidly retreating back. Not that it was a bad view, or anything, but it wasn’t exactly a triumph of seduction either.

It turns out that Isaac and Erica are roommates. Erica is a fire-fighter for the city, and is here with her boyfriend Boyd, who is keeping Derek (also a fire-fighter, and holy shit Stiles did not know he even had a fire-fighter kink until that very second) company at their table. Which all of them are now about to go and sit at. Including Stiles. Whose first response to the full-body shock of being in close proximity to someone as hot as Derek was to blurt out ridiculous pick-up lines, and then suggestively inform Derek that he likes fruit. 

Fuck, fuck, fuckitty _fuck._

He grips his glass of beer like it’s somehow his salvation, squares his shoulders, and follows Scott over to the table where Derek and Boyd are already waiting. He tries to shake off the feeling that he’s walking to the gallows. 

He should see this as an opportunity, after all. Derek dazzles him into a state of near (okay, total) idiocy, but all is not lost. Once he’s sitting near Derek and has had the chance for the dazzle to wear off a little, he can showcase his biting humor and keen intelligence and overall desirableness.

Positive. Mental. Attitude.

He moves to sit opposite Derek, and allows himself a small, pleased smile when he manages to aim his butt successfully at the chair and doesn’t fall out of it or walk into the table or anything. When Isaac introduces him to Derek and Boyd he chances a glance at Derek, heart sinking a little when he finds him glowering at the table, shoulders ram-rod stiff, hand clutching his own barely-touched glass so tightly his knuckles have turned white. 

A heavy silence descends over the table. 

Erica clears her throat. ‘So… This is uncomfortable…’ 

Isaac glances anxiously around the table, and Stiles is hugely grateful when Scott steps in to save the day by asking him what his super-power would be, if he could choose. Isaac says he would choose super strength with a grimace that makes Stiles wonder if there’s a story to be told there, sometime. 

Stiles has thought about this a lot, and has his go-to answer of psychokinesis all lined up and good to go, so he has _no fucking idea_ why, when the time comes, he flicks Derek one of his patented Sultry Looks and says, ‘X-Ray vision.’

Scott turns wide, disbelieving eyes on him, and all Stiles can do is give him a tiny shrug because he _doesn’t know,_ okay? It’s like his mouth isn’t even connected to his brain at all any more, it’s got a direct line to his dick, and his dick won’t shut the fuck up. 

Derek’s death-glare could melt holes in iron, Stiles thinks, and that’s before the slow, soul-crushing eye-roll Derek sends his way for good measure. Stiles cringes as his ego curls up at the edges and then withers into ashes under the heat of it. 

Thankfully Danny, Stiles’ new partner, arrives right then, fist bumping Isaac and Stiles and introducing himself easily to everyone else, and then he and Danny launch into the story of the shoplifter they’d caught emptying tubs of coleslaw down his pants at the supermarket on Stiles’ first shift.

‘…and when we asked him what in the ever-loving fuck he thought he was doing,’ Danny says, ‘he said he needed it for date night with his wife! Dude, I am _never_ fucking getting married.’ 

‘Didn’t it just ooze right out of his pant legs?’ Boyd asks, forehead furrowed as though he’s genuinely interested in the logistics of stealing the contents of seven tubs of coleslaw using only his pants and a reckless disregard for the law. 

‘Elastic bands around the ankles,’ Stiles explains matter-of-factly. ‘His wife was so mad at him. Apparently she’d wanted him to steal potato salad.’ 

Erica and Isaac laugh delightedly, and even Derek registers slight amusement – or at least, that’s what Stiles decides the slight upturn at the left corner of his mouth probably is. 

Stiles starts to feel a little more relaxed. He can be normal. He can be smooth. He’s never put coleslaw down his pants, so he has an edge over at least a percentage of the rest of the population of Beacon City. 

‘Hey, Derek…’ Scott says across the table, ‘Aren’t you the firefighter who brought in that dog a few weeks ago? The one that got its head stuck in a hole in a tree?’

‘Yeah.’ Derek’s ears go red and he fidgets with his glass a little, and Stiles is two seconds away from an actual swoon. ‘Was it okay?’

‘Mhmm,’ Scott takes a swig of beer. ‘We found the owner the next day. Kinda impressed that you remembered it in amongst all your heroic saving of lives, dude.’

‘Derek’s good with animals,’ Erica leans in to say, before flashing a wicked grin at Stiles. ‘Especially dumb ones.’

Stiles’ cheeks burn as he looks down at the table. 

‘Derek takes all the animal calls, when he can,’ Boyd says. ‘Got a knack with them.’

Derek ducks his head bashfully, shrugging his very broad and toned shoulders, and it’s basically the cutest thing Stiles has ever seen. He wonders if his eyes have actually turned heart-shaped when he looks at Derek, like some sort of cartoon wolf. 

‘Animals are honest,’ Derek says, in a voice that’s a little softer than Stiles expected, but he’s a hundred and twelve per cent into it. 

‘There’s always animals at the shelter, if you’re interested?’ Scott offers up.

Derek shakes his head, a little sadly. ‘My hours are so crazy I really don’t think I could.’

Stiles decides they’ll get a dog after they get married. Maybe two. All the dogs. Whatever it takes to get Derek’s dimples to make an appearance on the reg.

He decides to seize the moment, and drains his beer for dutch courage. He leans across the table so his hands are almost touching Derek's. ‘So... What's a smart, attractive young man like myself doing without your number?’ He says, with his most winning smile.

Derek rolls his eyes and scrapes his chair back abruptly. ‘Gonna take a leak.’

Scott watches him leave and then turns to Stiles, mouth ajar. ‘Dude. What is wrong with you?’

Stiles drops his head down on the sticky table-top. ‘I don’t even know, man. It’s like a disease…’

‘I mean I know the guy’s pretty but come _on…’_

‘Pretty?’ Stiles sits up, outraged on Derek’s behalf. ‘Scotty,’ he hisses, ‘he’s not just _pretty,_ he’s a gorgeous, cute as fuck, brave, sweet, heroic firefighter! Can you blame me if my Han doesn’t wanna fly solo tonight?’ He feels himself glaze over slightly as he processes the fact that Derek is a firefighter, which means that he wears break away pants, which are called that because they _break away,_ holy fuck. He fans himself a little with a napkin.

‘Oh no…’ Scott says with a look of dawning comprehension. ‘Stiles…’ 

But Stiles - Stiles is on a roll. Stiles is not even halfway done reeling off Derek’s many attributes – he hasn’t even started on the perfection of his biceps yet. But Scott’s wearing that familiar, long-suffering expression that suggests he’s about to lose the will to live, so Stiles plumps for succinct. ‘He’s the most adorable thing I have ever seen and I am going to marry him!’ Stiles announces with a decisive nod. 

Scott face-palms, which, rude. ‘Stiles. Bro. This just like the Lydia thing…’ 

‘No,’ Stiles says through a pout. ‘No it isn’t. Because that wasn’t destiny, my friend. I thought it was, sure, right up until I figured out it wasn’t. But this! This is destiny! This is the stuff of epic romances! They’re gonna write books about our love, and then make movies about the books and Ryan Gosling will win an Oscar based on his nuanced performance of me, and then he and I will hang out all the time and be bros. You’ll still be my best bro though, dude.’

‘Thanks, man.’ Scott doesn’t look very reassured, which is weird. ‘Uh, Stiles. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but the dude doesn’t seem exactly… into you.’

‘Well of course not, I haven’t even _met_ Ryan Gosling yet.’

‘No, bro. I mean _Derek.’_

Stiles shrugs stoically. ‘Oh. I prefer to think of it as just not being on his radar yet.’ 

‘Nooo…’ Scott groans, thunking his head down onto the table. ‘Here we go again…’ 

Stiles pouts a little more because really, does Scott have that little faith in him? Yes, maybe he’d invested hundreds – or thousands – of hours into pining after Lydia, to no avail at all. Maybe there'd been the occasional power point presentation detailing complex, multi-point action plans to get her to agree to a date with him. Maybe he’d been a little delusional about Lydia ever reciprocating any of his feelings. But this is different. Derek is _perfect._ Stiles _knows._

He just needs a little time to see that Stiles is perfect for him.

And because Stiles is perfect for him - obviously – he decides to be patient. 

Which is how he comes to spend two nights a week for the next six weeks impressing the fuck out of Derek with his lightning wit and excellent conversation.

At least, he chooses to believe that he is impressing the fuck out of Derek. Okay, so he does slip into the terrible awful pick-up line thing more often than he’d like and no, Derek has yet to actually seek him out to communicate with him. Sure, Stiles would like to see a little more progress – in the same time frame Scott and Isaac have had a lot of extremely loud sex all over the apartment and Isaac has met Scott’s mom – and Derek mostly just remains impassive and unmoved so it’s hard to really tell. But Derek hasn’t punched him, so he likes to think that’s a good sign. 

Derek’s gonna warm up to him any day now. 

Positive. Mental. Attitude.

He sidles up to Derek where he’s leaning against the bar. He's wearing soft charcoal gray slacks that fit him just right around the ass, his hair doesn't look too crazy, and he's drunk two beers worth of false confidence. He is fully ready for this evening's wooing. ‘Your hand looks heavy today,’ he says in a tone he hopes is sexy, dying a little inside at how corny he sounds. ‘Want me to hold it for you?’

Derek turns to look at him, his eyes grey and stormy against his dark henley. Stiles stares at the muscles that are working in the thick column of Derek’s throat, and then all of a sudden there’s a strong hand gripping his shoulder and he’s being frog-marched to a quiet corner away from everyone else. 

Stiles swallows nervously. It’s not lost on him that he’s never been alone with Derek before. This is either very good - Stiles is not averse to a little manhandling – or very bad. He shuffles his feet awkwardly as Derek glowers and towers, apparently trying to marshal his words. Stiles is still holding out a little hope that the manhandling was just foreplay for, maybe, being held up against a wall and expertly fucked (or, you know, one of the other very non-specific fantasies that he absolutely hasn't been obsessing over for weeks).

‘When are you going to stop with the bullshit, Stiles?’ Derek grits out finally. He sounds exhausted, and Stiles realises with a sinking feeling that it was very bad. 

‘Huh?’ He squeaks. In a manly way. The manliest fucking way, obviously.

Derek shakes his head in disbelief. ‘I fucking get it, alright? Do you think I’m deaf as well as stupid?’

Stiles feels his eyes widen and his ears burn wildly. ‘I don’t- I don’t think…’

‘You think I’m hot, right?’ Derek steps close enough that Stiles can feel the heat from his body. His fingers itch with the need to touch, but he doesn't dare. This is theoretically everything Stiles has wanted for over a month. But right now the glint in Derek’s eye is downright dangerous, and all he can do is nod mutely.

Derek plants one hand on the wall behind Stiles, caging him in. ‘You wanna fuck me.’

‘Jesus,’ Stiles whimpers, dizzy with the deep, rich scent of Derek’s cologne. ‘Yes.’ 

‘And then what?’ Derek demands harshly.

Stiles startles a little. ‘What?’

‘Then what, Stiles?’ Derek pulls back, his eyes hardening to flints, mouth twisted. ‘You win some sort of bet for nailing the un-nailable lieutenant? Bragging rights? What?’

‘Derek…’ Stiles blinks shocked eyes.

‘I know you wanna fuck me. God knows, part of me’s tempted to let you just so you’ll finally shut up and leave me alone.’ Derek’s face is all hard lines and set jaw. He’s angry, yeah, but he’s also… hurt?

‘I… Wait, what the hell are you talking about?’ Stiles protests as he realises there’s way more going on here than he’d originally thought. 

Derek scoffs. ‘You’re really gonna try and pretend this whole thing hasn’t been about the pool?’ 

Stiles opens his mouth, then shuts it, then opens it again. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening right now, but I can promise you that this hasn’t been about anything other than me really _really_ liking you. Do you really think I’d act like this over someone I didn’t like? I turn into a blubbering idiot around you, dude.’ 

Derek rakes his eyes over him, looking for the first time a tiny bit less than certain. ‘Don't call me dude. So... It’s not… a bet?’

‘What?!’ Stiles all but screeches.

Derek rears back a bit in alarm. 

‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ Stiles softens his voice, stretching out a hand to stop him leaving. ‘I just… Who would do that?’

‘I’ve been a firefighter for six years,’ Derek says, slumping down onto a nearby table like all the fight’s just draining out of him. ‘The first year the police department ran a pool to see who could fuck the newbie. I fell for it, hook, line and sinker. I really thought she liked me, but… Turned out I was just a big joke. They try again every year.’

‘Holy shit,’ Stiles says, reeling with shock. ‘The fucking _assholes!_ Tell me who it was, I’ll fucking _end_ them.’ His hands close unconsciously into fists, and he’s nearly shaking with rage that anyone could be so cruel, but especially to Derek, who’s such a good person.

‘You really didn’t know,’ Derek says, in such soft surprise that it’s almost to himself.

‘Of course not! You… really didn’t think I was serious about you.’ Stiles is stricken, horrified that this whole time Derek has thought Stiles was just trying to get into his pants to use him and then laugh about it afterwards.

Derek shrugs helplessly. ‘You’ve never given me any reason to think you were serious about anything other than sleeping with me.’ 

‘Derek, that is… That is not what I meant to… like at all…’ Stiles splutters, sinking down next to him. Then he takes a breath and closes his eyes, screws up his courage and talks, because it’s the very least Derek deserves. ‘Derek, I… I went back and re-read _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ last week because a month ago you told Erica how much you liked it, and I … I know you want to go to Fiji one day because it’s where your mom and dad went on honeymoon. I know that one day you wanna open a dog rescue centre and that you’ll probably wind up adopting all of them yourself. I know that you act angry but usually you’re just shy. I know it makes me want to hold your hand for real, even though I was a fucking _idiot_ to tell you that like it was a joke. And I know there’s a million more things I don’t know about you, but I want to know them. I want to be with you. Long enough to know all of them.’

Derek watches him, clearly taken aback but… not necessarily in a bad way. Hope prickles in Stiles’ chest. ‘You… _are_ serious about me,’ Derek says. His voice is tender, like he’s actually sort of on board with the idea.

‘I know I’ve been the king of douchey pick-ups, but it’s only because I am so fucking into you, and so fucking intimidated by you, my brain just sort of…’ Stiles holds his hands up near his head and makes a gesture to mimic his brain imploding. 

‘So… are you going to actually ask me out?’ Derek looks like he’s holding back a laugh.

‘Yeah! Yes. Definitely, oh my god. This is happening. Okay, here goes.’ Stiles clears his throat and looks up at Derek through his eyelashes. ‘Firefighter Hale, I’m here because it’s illegal to be as gorgeous as you are. Anything you say can and will be held against you, so you should probably only say my name.’

‘Oh my god…’ Derek snorts and shakes his head. 

‘What? That was smooth as fuck, and you know it!’ Stiles decides to be brave again, since it worked out pretty well last time, so he gently grabs for Derek’s hand. It turns out that it is actually pretty heavy, but Stiles doesn’t mind holding it at all. ‘How about Thursday?’ 

‘Thursday’s good,’ Derek says. ‘Thursday’s really good.’

And just like that (six weeks later) Stiles has finally wooed Derek Hale.

On their way back to the bar, Derek leans in and brushes a kiss to his cheek.

Stiles is so shocked he trips over a chair leg and almost wipes out entirely, except Derek catches him inches from the ground and helps him to his feet. 

‘Hey, I think you just fell for me,’ Derek murmurs into the shell of his ear, laughing softly at the look on Stiles’ face. He smirks and then heads for the bar again, leaving his fingers tangled with Stiles’. 

Stiles follows him, along with his cartoon heart eyes, because if he hadn’t been in love before, he definitely is now.

**Author's Note:**

> In this AU Stiles and Derek fall hopelessly in love, get married and adopt three dogs.
> 
> They also adopt a cat, who becomes Stiles' nemesis. 
> 
> No-one writes a book about the epicness of their love, but Stiles does see Ryan Gosling in a Whole Foods one time. Their eyes meet over the German sausage, and Stiles swears they share a special bro-connection (a bro-nection, if you will).
> 
> He bores Scott shitless with the anecdote for a whole month.


End file.
